Timeless

sundowner bullets. Alexia detested the very idea that she might have to actually use her gun. Like any well-bred woman, she vastly preferred merely to wave it about and make wild, menacing gestures. This was partly because her marksmanship was limited to sometimes hitting the side of the barn—if it was a very large barn and she was very close to it—and partly because guns seemed so decidedly final. Still, even if all she intended to do was threaten, she might as well be able to fulfill that threat adequately. Alexia abhorred hypocrisy, especially when munitions were involved.

She took a moment to lament her lack of parasol. Every time she left the house, she felt keenly the absence of her heretofore ubiquitous accessory. She had asked Conall for a replacement, and he had muttered mysterious husband-with-gifts-afoot mutters, but nothing had resulted. She might have to take matters into her own hands soon. But with Madame Lefoux indentured to the Woolsey Hive, Alexia was at a loss as to how to locate an inventor capable of producing work of such complexity and delicacy, not to mention fashion.

Floote materialized with two first-class tickets from London to Woolsey on the Tilbury Line’s Barking Express.

“Lord Maccon will not be joining me, Floote. Are any of the men available to act as escort?”

Floote took a long moment to consider his mistress’s options. Alexia knew she had tasked her butler with quite a conundrum. With drones, werewolves, and clavigers to choose from, distributed among two households and currently bumbling about most of London, there was quite the crowd for even a butler of Floote’s cranial capacity to keep account of. All Alexia knew was that Biffy was working and that Boots was visiting relations in Steeple Bumpshod.

Floote took a small breath. “I’m afraid there is only Major Channing immediately available, madam.”

Alexia winced. “Really? How unfortunate. Well, he will have to do. I can’t very well travel by train alone, can I? Would you tell him I request his attendance as escort, please?”

This time it was Floote’s turn to wince, which for him was a mere twitch of one eyelid. “Of course, madam.”

He glided off, reappearing moments later with her wrap and Major Channing, the London Pack’s toffee-nosed Gamma werewolf.

“Lady Maccon, you require my services?” Major Channing Channing of the Chesterfield Channings was a man who spoke the Queen’s English with that unctuous precision instilled only by generations of the best schools, the best society, and an overabundance of teeth.

“Yes, Major, I must visit Woolsey.”

Major Channing looked as though he would quite like to object to the very idea of accompanying his Alpha female into the countryside, but he knew perfectly well that Lady Maccon would ask for him only if she had no other alternatives. He also knew who was most likely to bear the brunt of Lord Maccon’s wrath if she were allowed to travel alone. So he said the only thing he could say under such circumstances.

“I am, of course, at your disposal, my lady. Ready, willing, and able.”

“Don’t overdo it, Channing.”

“Yes, my lady.”

Lady Maccon eyed the Gamma’s outfit with a critical eye. He was in his military garb, and Alexia wasn’t entirely certain that was appropriate for calling on vampires. But do we have time for him to change? To give insult by being very late indeed or by bringing a soldier into the house of a vampire queen? Quite the conundrum.

“Floote, what time does our train depart?”

“In one half hour, madam, from Fenchurch Street Station.”

“Ah, no time for you to change, then, Major. Very well, collect your greatcoat and let’s be away.”

They rode the train in an uncomfortable silence, Alexia pondering the night out the window and Major Channing pondering an exceedingly dull-looking financial paper. Major Channing, Alexia had discovered much to her shock, was interested in figures, and as such was bursar to the pack. It seemed odd for a man of breeding and snobbery to dally with mathematics, but immortality did strange things to people’s hobbies.

Some three-quarters of an hour into their journey, they consumed some very nice tea and little crustless sandwiches provided by an obsequious train steward who seemed very well aware of the dignity of Major Channing and rather less of that of Lady Maccon. As she nibbled her cucumber and cress, Alexia wondered if this were not one of the reasons she disliked the major so very much. He was awfully good at being aristocratic. Alexia, on the other hand, was only good at being autocratic. Not quite the same thing.

Alexia became increasingly aware of a prickling sensation at the back of her neck, as though she were being scrutinized carefully. It was a most disagreeable sensation, like stepping one’s bare foot into a vat of pudding.

Pretending travel fatigue, she arose to engage in a short constitutional.

There were few other occupants in first class, but Alexia was startled to find that behind them and across sat a man in a sort of floppy turban. That is to say, she was not startled that there was someone else in the carriage but that a man was in a turban—most irregular. Turbans were well out of fashion, even for women. He seemed unduly interested in his daily paper, suggesting he had, until very recently, been unduly interested in something else. Lady Maccon, never one to take anything as coincidence, suspected him of observing her, or Major Channing, or both.

She pretended a little stumble as the train rattled along and fell in against the turbaned gentleman, upsetting his tea onto his paper.

“Oh, dear me, I do apologize,” she declaimed loudly.

The man shook his damp paper in disgust but said nothing.

“Please allow me to fetch you another cup? Steward!”

The man only shook his head and mumbled something low in a language Alexia did not recognize.

“Well, if you’re quite sure you won’t?”

The man shook his head again.

Alexia continued her walk to the end of the car, then turned about and returned to her seat.

“Major Channing, I do believe we have company,” she stated upon reseating herself.

The werewolf looked up from his own paper and over. “The man in the turban?”

“You noticed?”

“Hasn’t taken his eyes off you most of the ride. Bloody foreigners.”

“You didn’t think to tell me?”

“Thought it was your figure. Orientals never like to see a lady’s assets.”

“Oh, really, Major, must you be so crass? Such language.” Alexia paused, considering. “What nationality would you say?”

The major, who was very well traveled, answered without needing to look up again. “Egyptian.”

“Interesting.”

“Is it?”

“Oh, Major, you do so love to annoy, don’t you?”

“It is the stuff of living, my lady.”

“Don’t be pert.”

“Me? I wouldn’t dream of it.”

No further incidents occurred, and when they alighted at their stop, the foreign gentleman did not follow them.

“Interesting,” said Alexia again.

The Woolsey Station, a new stopover, was built at considerable expense by the newly relocated Woolsey Hive with an eye toward encouraging Londoners to engage in country jaunts. The greatest disappointment in Countess Nadasdy’s very long life was this exile to the outer reaches of Barking. The Woolsey Hive queen had commissioned the station to be built and even allocated a portion of Woolsey’s extensive grounds. From the station, visitors could catch a tiny private train, conducted by a complicated tram apparatus without an engineer. The location of the hive was no longer a not-very-well-kept secret. The vampires seemed to feel some sense of security in the country, but they were still vampires. There was no longer a road leading directly to Woolsey; there was only this special train, the operation of which was tightly controlled by drones at the castle terminus.